


Almost getting away with murder

by Astray



Series: Bones, Skulls, and Kittens [11]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Bad references, Gen, Nix has the references she deserves, mentions of murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: Nix had always worked alone, and usually managed to get away with murder. But this time, she found herself with someone on her tail, who she could not shake off.In retrospect, things could have been much worse.
Series: Bones, Skulls, and Kittens [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/720660
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Almost getting away with murder

Nix had had it. Having people set on her was nothing new, but there, she had barely had any time to get off the plane for the stalking to start. She still did her job, because she was not about to fuck a contract up over someone following her. It went pretty smoothly, mostly owing to the fact that her target was a conceited idiot who apparently thought no one was crazy enough to attempt public assassination in that day and age. And to the fact that the poison had worked its way in his system pretty fast, and really, it was going to look like an OD until they ran tests. 

People in her field kept saying that poison was good for nothing but really, if you poisoned people with stuff that could be found everywhere - in gardens, over the counter, or simply by having studied it a bit - you were no easier to find than a guy using a specific gun or knife. 

Nothing happened when she was working. But when she called her employer and sent him all needed proof of the completion of her task, that was when things went to shit. The sensation of being followed kept growing until it was all she could think about. She had done her best to shake them off, but they were good. As a last resort, she had to confront them. She took to the roofs. Parkour was something she hated with a passion, but had been part of the skills she had had to learn, and there she was. 

It was usually much more effective to keep people off her back, although here it was nigh useless. They were even gaining on her. So, she stopped running: if she was to go down, she deserved the most cliché downfall possible. She was still in her twenties, she was entitled to have weird ideas as to how she would die. And it trumped her 16-year-old self that wanted to drown herself in a pink bath. Or was it a sugar OD, if possible? Honestly. And she had been doing that same job for a while now. Had started as a family thing, and she kind of kept at it when she realized she could make much more money that way to fund her studies and avoid student loans. 

And maybe other students would resort various means to support themselves but Dead Daddies with Big Fat Paycheck definitely won over Sugar Daddies with Big Fat Conceit and Being Ground to Death by Capitalistic Greed as far as she was concerned. To each their own. All this to say: she did have a not too bad life and being a drama llama on her way out was called for. 

In all fairness, she had expected to get shot. She had not expected a knife fight, but hey, guess she was not the only one with a flair for the dramatic. The fight barely lasted a few minutes, and she ended up minus her knife, her opponent in a headlock that he had matched. Now that they were close and personal, she reflected that killing and fighting were the only instances she ever got really close to people. She glanced to the side, and only saw a mask of blank professionalism. He was not crushing her windpipe, so either he was not trying to kill her - doubtful, he would have gutted her twice had it not been for timely parries or retreats - or he had questions. She cleared her throat.

“It’s going to sound like a bad movie but since I’m going to die, care to tell me who hired you?”

She heard a huff, even if his expression barely shifted. But he sounded amused when he said, “It’s a terrible movie, so I’m going to tell you.” She could not place his accent. She had heard it somewhere, but she could not remember for the life of her -  _ ahahah, hilarious _ \- where. “Tarquin seemed pissed. And he pays well.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she squawked. “That weasel has yet to pay me for cleaning his last fuckup, I’m not dying before getting paid, no way. And that last job you tracked me through? That was a mate of his asking it as a favour. Nope.”

“Not what he said.”

“Because you expect him to tell you he doesn’t pay his hounds? Give me a break. You tracked me. Not everyone can do that and besides, why the fuck would I lie to someone who got a blade on my femoral?” Maybe it was her derisive tone, maybe it was because she had stopped struggling, or maybe it was because she gave the impression not to give a fuck. Either way, he let her go. He took a few steps back, right next to her lost knife. She was too winded to lunge anyway. She might like the cliché, but she still had a good grasp on what was real and what was fictional. She was not Deadpool, and will only die once. She was curious, though. The city lights were cutting up his features in sharp black night and sodium brightness. 

“Lemme guess? You just remembered you don’t kill ladies.”

“How many clichés can you stick in a normal conversation,” he replied on the same tone. Which was refreshing. Because it showed that while he was still professional about the whole thing - else he would not be standing where he was - he had a sense of humour. 

“Normal conversations?”

“Should kill you.”

“What, over my fine conversation skills? You wound me.”

“How’s your face, by the way?” 

The cut on her temple was still bleeding. “The real question is, how’s your head, and I never got there, so I have no clue. Wanna try out.”

“I like to stay in one piece.” He gestured to her feet. “Why don’t you use the knife strapped to your leg?”

“I’d have to bend to get it, I’m lazy, and also, I don’t bend for no one. Besides, that’s the longest conversation I had with a man that had not ended prematurely with attempted groping and broken hands. Just let me bask in the novelty, heh?”

That got a chuckle out of him. She was not so sure he was going to kill her now - although it could be a way to lure her into a sense of - false - security. She had done the same on occasions, and she was not exactly the only hired gun - knife, etc - on the planet. 

“You mean fighting doesn’t count?”

“As groping? You did not even punch me in the chest, let alone attempt a boob grab. Not saying I’m disappointed, but there you go.”

Somehow, having that sort of conversation with someone who, for all intent and purpose, was supposed to send her back to the Hell that had spawned her was really nice. Again, she did not get to socialize with people in her field. Although she suspected him to be more a military type, possibly a mercenary, but not an assassin. Or at least he did spend a lot of time in the military. She had seen that fighting style elsewhere - her style came from fencing. Not hand-to-hand training. And she was not sure how she was convinced of that. Or it was because he seemed to have some sort of standards. Ever met an assassin with standards? The ocean was full of them. 

As the conversation progressed, they had gotten closer to the edge of the building. Sitting there, cross-legged, staring into the circulatory system that pumped cars through the city’s heart, Nix kind of craved a smoke. Not even because she liked the taste. But it just seemed fitting. She always kept a tin box with a few spares and a lighter. She lit one up, held it to her current companion, who shook his head. They stayed like that in silence for a while, before she went on. 

“Are you going to push me over the ledge?”

“Are you?”

She glared at him from the corner of her eye, and saw him smirking. She made a mental note that he was handsome indeed, and that kind of small smirk suited him. 

“I won’t.” He did not say anything for three beats before he added: “Call me insane, but if you’re saying the truth, I’m not so sure I want to carry that particular contract out.*

“How’s the pay?”

“Pretty hefty. I could afford not to work for a while with that.”

“You probably should, then.”

It was his turn to glare. “I’m not here to help you commit suicide.”

“Meh, just saying. Although maybe you’re right - if you do it, you might be next on the list. And wouldn’t that suck balls.”

“Now, don’t shame those who like that.”

She did cackle. She could not help it. “Still, maybe the guy’d be pleased and actually pay you. No idea why that sodding bastard decided to get me murdered, to be honest.”

“Maybe it was the puns?”

“Duh, like I would. Nah, I’m probably too expensive for the money-grubbing nitwit.”

“Guess I should not. The rates seemed quite high, so maybe you’re right.”

“Or you could collect the pay, saying you killed me, I kill the sod-”

“And we elope in the sunset and raise an army of murder children?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘you buy me dinner, a round-trip to Europe, and you keep the rest of your pay.”

He shot her a surprised look, that immediately morphed into mock hurt. “You wound me. And there I thought there was something between us.”

“There was, and it’s called a knife.”

To be perfectly honest, arranging her ‘death’ proved to be quite easy. It was not the first time she faked her death, but usually, she had been the only one involved. Working with someone else on it was different. But they had outdone themselves. There were proofs, samples, everything to convince Tarquin that she was dead and buried. Including footage of her murderer getting rid of her body in something that suspiciously looked like a very dark acid bath but was honestly little more than coke and Mentos, or something of that kind. But hey, it was night, and Tarquin probably was not going to question it. 

Jango, because that was his name, had been even kind enough to offer they meet up before he saw Tarquin to collect his fee, a few days later, which Nix appreciated deeply. The soda had been a pain in the neck to get out of her hair after it had dried. She also managed to land an express appointment with her hairdresser to cut it short. No point looking like herself more than she had to. She thus went from middle of the back and wavy to short cropped hair she could slick back. 

The look on Tarquin face when she slipped into his office right after Jango got out had been absolutely priceless. But not nearly as much as killing him. She was very good and did not resort to her usual methods - after all, she was supposed to be dead, and she deserved some holidays. Killing with a witness was also a novel experience, and she could not say if she liked it or not. It was strange, although Jango was technically not watching the whole time, so it felt a bit less voyeuristic than she had expected it to. 

They walked back out of the empty compound - why Tarquin never bothered with more guard dogs was really a wonder. You would think that army-turned-politician types would actually bother. But no. Assholes thought they were too powerful. Tough. 

“Okay, sir. Dinner.”

“Considering the time, it’d be breakfast.”

By the time they made it to Dex’s - walking in a city that was barely waking up at 5am on an April morning - Nix had gone through as many references to Corbucci as she could manage - and silently being grateful that her uncle had made them kids sit down through every Spaghetti western available because ‘culture’. To be fair, Jango was a good sport about it. Although he did get his revenge when she let slip that her last name was Scaligeri. She was treated to puns on balancing things out, scales, weighing stuff, and, more surprisingly, Romeo and Juliet. 

“I never quite expect people to actually make the link between the two.”

“But your name comes from there.”

“To a hilariously accurate degree, believe me.” She pushed the door to the diner, glad for the warmth of the place. 

“You mean, you’re related to the Della Scala?”

“At least the family lore has it so. And because last names were not exactly consistent depending on where you lived, it would be hard to rule out completely. But I’m no genealogist.”

“Well, you know how to deal with feuds, from what I saw.”

She grinned and sat down in one of those old-fashioned, comfortable booths by the window. Jango sat opposite her. “See? I learned.” One of the waitresses came to give them the menus, and Nix thanked her warmly - she was starving, so anyone offering the possibility of food was fit to ascend to godhood as far as she was concerned.

“Waffles?” She glanced up to see Jango pointing at the special offer on all things waffles. 

“How has no one married you yet?”

“I run too fast.”

“I got a boomerang somewhere.”

He pointed again, and she nodded. They placed their order, which amounted to pretty much every bit of bacon available, all the waffles, and enough coffee to drown in it. Although Jango grimaced when she ordered an ‘Americano-sized ristretto’. 

“By the way, Nix. You know how to talk to people. Wonder how you’re single.”

“How about fuck you?”

“Before a proper date? So rude.”

Their coffee arrived pretty fast, and she held her mug to Jango. Just to see if he would try it. He did, and she had never seen anyone turn grey faster. 

“How do you even drink that?”

She shrugged and proceeded to pour an unhealthy amount of sugar in it. “Sugar and spite.”

“This is so evil.” 

“Your coffee doesn’t exactly look light either.”

“There is a difference between tar and asphalt.” And looked at him drinking his coffee, pleased as you may. Although she ended up admitting to him that she rarely ever drank that type of drinks - only when she needed to stay awake for too long. Otherwise, she was a tea drinker. But the snobbish kind.

As soon as their food got there, it was a fight with no survivors. Although they somehow did not need to fight for the last bit of bacon.

“Now that you’re dead, what do?”

“Going back to University full-time to try that PhD thing. Because I’m quite obviously insane. I’ve been doing the teacher training lately, and I finished that.”

“They offer courses in Bad Puns 101?”

“Worse - medieval literature. I did my MA in Europe and got to do both Medieval History and Literature.”

“No shit.” He genuinely looked interested and that was so weird because people usually ran in fear. “So you read in what, Old English?”

“Not really. I slaughter Middle English but that’s about it.”

“So underwhelming.”

“Chaucer is too dead to be mad at me.”

“Thanks deities for small mercies?”

“Grammar and pronunciation were not prescriptive yet, I’m good though.”

“You mean pronunciation is meant to be set in stone?” He stared at her in mock shock. “How are we coping?”

She laughed. “To be fair, it’s terrible as a learner because they convince you Received Pronunciation is  _ the  _ only way to talk. And then you go abroad.”

“And you understand no one.”

“The first time I crossed the Pond, I was in shock, like,  _ please articulate oh my god. _ ”

Linguistics occupied them for a while, knowing they both spoke other languages besides English, and found a way to relate to each other based on their disbelief at people trying to use other languages in writing in a way that was so damn fake it hurt. They got more food - and Nix switched back to tea after her Horror Coffee™. 

“No hitting on you, but if you’re looking for a place to move - since you’re supposed to be dead…”

“You got a crypt? Swell.”

“No one says ‘swell’ anymore. Mainly, I got a house not too far from the University that I’m sharing with two folks who are going to move out.”

“We ain’t dating and you ask me to move in. Smooth.”

“The house is paid for, and rent would be just half the bills.” He was all business, although there was a hint of humour in the way he looked at her.

“So, just a housemate?”

“And occasional cat-sitter. I can’t leave him alone for too long.”

She perked up, and sat straighter. “Cat? I’ll do it. For the cat.” 

He laughed, and added that the cat would surely appreciate the attention. 

“Are you sure, though? I mean, I might kill you.”

“Fine, but softly, please?”

She winced. “Why did you have to go there with that song? Now I can’t think of anything else.”

“I fed you, I can. And I don’t think you’d kill someone who offered you food.”

“See, I don’t get why people think sex is what binds people together. Food is the thing. You feed me, I’m on board.”

“And really, if I wanted to fuck you, I’d have asked you.”

“Ye smooth talker. Same though.”

Jango downed the last of his coffee. “We’re good then?”

“Just for the cat, Jango. Just for the cat.”


End file.
